


The Hitchhiker's Guide to Gender

by heliocentricity



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Nonbinary Character, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 11:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15314958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliocentricity/pseuds/heliocentricity
Summary: Trans man Arthur Dent discovers all he needs to start publicly transitioning is a quirky friend from Betelgeuse who doesn't give a fuck about gender norms.





	The Hitchhiker's Guide to Gender

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to focus less on it for this particular story, but if anything between Arthur and Ford seems gay, just know it most definitely is.

The first time Arthur Dent met Ford Prefect was at a bar so many years ago, Arthur Dent was not even known as Arthur Dent. His last name was the same, but his first was something else entirely, a very particular string of syllables which, to the indoctrinated, heteronormative mind of most human beings, tends to evoke images of frills, dresses, and curled hair, all things the aforementioned heteronormative mind associates with femininity and womanhood. 

Yet Arthur Dent associates himself with those two things about as much as he associates telemarketers with a good time—in other words, not a whole lot.

Luckily for Arthur, there was one person at the bar that night whose mind had not been saturated with years of color-coded toys’ sections, who was not a product of generations of heteronormativity, and who, most significantly of all, was not even a human being. 

. . .

Ford Prefect was a Betelgeusian on Earth, researching for The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the most successful book in the Universe. On that particular night, he was completing what might be called his master’s thesis on Terran alcoholic beverages. He had discovered, much to his disappointment, that the average cocktail on Earth did not possess even one-sixteenth of the punch packed by, say, a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. But this was a problem easily remedied by imbibing as many human drinks as physically possible. 

It was as Ford was receiving his eighth beverage that Arthur Dent slumped into the seat next to him, looking like he’d just fought a hungry grizzly bear—and lost.

“Rough day at the office, huh, buddy?” Ford asked sympathetically. 

Arthur simply shoved a hand into his face and moaned. Ford took that as a yes. 

“I know what’ll you cheer you up,” he declared and, after swiftly downing his eighth drink, signaled the bartender. “Another round over here!” 

. . .

Even without getting drunk, Arthur found his attention riveted on the bizarre stranger next to him, who used the most unusual slang words, such as “zowee” and “hoopy." 

When Arthur asked about them, Ford replied, “Oh, those words just haven’t made it big on your planet yet, is all.” 

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Your planet? Well, that’s odd. You act as if we don’t share it.”

Ford shrugged—or at least, he tried to shrug. After approaching a single Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster’s worth of alcohol, his shoulders weren’t in sync with one another, and neither were his hands. Overall, the gesture had more of the effect of a partially dead bird making a final and feeble attempt to fly. “I suppose you could say we’re sharing it now,” he conceded, “but I won’t be here much longer.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked. 

“I'm expecting to hitch a ride back to Betelgeuse any day now.” He took another hearty swig of his drink without further explanation.

“Wait. Did you just say. . . beetle. . . juice?”

Ford nodded.

“What’s that supposed to be, another planet?” Arthur meant it as a joke, but Ford nodded vigorously.

“Oh yes,” he agreed, “my home planet, in fact.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, but Arthur found himself in a rather indulgent mood. “Oh really?” he asked. “You’re an alien, then, I take it?”

“Yessiree. I wear this badge for a reason.” He pointed to a home-made patch sewn onto the left arm of his jacket. It featured an upside-down, teal teardrop, with two black splotches on either side that must’ve been eyes and the word ALIEN stenciled in messy black thread below. 

Arthur managed a somewhat convincing, “Hmm, I see,” then asked, “So, if you’re an alien, what’s your name?”

“Ford. Ford Prefect.”

Arthur thought about this for a moment. “I guess that sounds about right, for an alien,” he agreed.

“Thanks,” said Ford. “Chose it myself.”

This snagged Arthur’s interest. “You can choose your own name?” he asked.

Ford made the vague shrugging gesture again. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?” 

At that, Arthur fell silent and was promptly lost in his own thoughts. 

. . .

Ford took a liking to Arthur after that night and, over the next several weeks, periodically showed up at his doorstep with a series of invitations.

“Today I’ll be researching human zoos. Want to come?”

Or, “I’m off to the beach to measure sea shells. Care to join me?”

Or even, “Hey, Arthur, buddy, I’ve gotta get into the city hall to nab some important documents, but the thing is, they already have my face on record, so I was wondering if you could go in for me, now there’s a pal.” 

Arthur usually did whatever Ford asked, with only a small amount of complaining. Though he had dismissed Ford's far-fetched tales about coming from another planet as nothing more than drunken ramblings, still he found himself intrigued by the guy. And besides, it wasn't as if he had anything better to do with his evenings. He may as well go out for a bit.

One of Arthur’s favorite things about Ford, he soon discovered, was the way in which he so casually flaunted gender norms. 

First of all, the guy had no attachment whatsoever to his own masculinity. Arthur was fairly sure if he asked Ford about his gender, Ford’s response would be, “Gender? I don’t know ‘em.” He styled his hair every morning and took great care in buying his outfits but surprisingly little time choosing how to combine them. He also insisted his “gender”—if that’s what Arthur insisted on calling it—had no relationship with his attraction to others. 

“If I like someone, I like someone,” he explained simply. “Then it’s only a matter of if they like me back.”

Arthur had asked about this subject in particular because he was worried maybe Ford was trying to hit on him, inviting him on sea-side strolls every other day and whatnot. Though it didn’t matter to him who Ford was attracted to, he still didn’t want to lead the guy on. Unlike with Ford, Arthur’s gender was everything when he considered relationships, and, more often than not, it discouraged him from pursuing any. He was always marginally uncomfortable with his own body, and the last thing he wanted was another person investing themself in it. Maybe someday that would change, but that day had yet to come. 

He tried to explain this to Ford once, and Ford just pursed his lips and listened.

“Sounds like gender’s a real bitch,” he concluded, and, despite himself, Arthur laughed.

“You can say that again.” 

. . .

“I’d like to cut my hair short,” Arthur remarked one day, lounging with Ford in his living room and flipping through TV channels with no real goal in mind.

Ford’s reply was simple: “Then cut it.” 

“But,” Arthur spluttered, “wouldn’t it seem odd, for me to go around with a crew-cut or something?”

“I shouldn’t think so.” 

Arthur Dent thought about this and, the next day, went to the hairdresser’s, where he promptly got the majority of his hair cut off. 

When Ford saw Arthur’s new look, he gave the tufts an affectionate ruffle and told Arthur, “See, it looks just fine!”

Another time, while getting ready for a New Year’s party, Arthur complained about his clothing options. 

“I just don’t like dresses all that much.” 

“Don’t wear a dress then,” replied Ford, absent-mindedly picking lint off his own strikingly orange suit jacket.

Arthur opened his mouth to shoot back a snarky reply, then paused and asked, “Well, what would I wear instead? All I’ve got are dresses, and everything else I own is too casual.” 

He didn’t suppose he could wear his bathrobe to the party, though that was, honest to God, the article of clothing in which he felt the most comfortable. 

“You can borrow one of my suits, if you’d like,” Ford offered.

Arthur let out a small laugh, imagining himself in a brightly colored, double-sided vest, complete with a matching tie and pair of shoes. 

He kept imagining it. 

And kept imagining it, still. 

Finally, after several minutes’ worth of imagining, he spoke. “Say, Ford, were you serious about lending me a suit?”

That evening, the two made a rather snazzy pair, and when they walked home after a long night, Arthur silently thanked whatever entity ruled over the Universe that he didn’t have to make the trek back in heels. 

In a third memorable instance, while sitting in a tired coffee shop nursing a warm cup of tea, Arthur remarked, “Y’know, I don’t much like my name.” 

The reader should be reminded, at this point in time, Arthur Dent’s name was not Arthur Dent. It was a name which, to the indoctrinated, heteronormative mind of most human beings, tends to evoke images of frills, dresses, and curled hair.

“Then change it,” Ford suggested.

And that’s just what Arthur did.


End file.
